


Here Now

by merelyafigment, visionofblue (merelyafigment)



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Community: oz_magi, Gen, M/M, Oz Magi's Party in the Dress Factory, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28710531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/merelyafigment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/visionofblue
Summary: Post-Series, Father Mukada has left Oz for another church, when his past seeks him out one night.
Relationships: Miguel Alvarez/Ray Mukada
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: Oz Magi





	Here Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trillingstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/gifts).



> **Edited** : the day after archiving, because for some reason the ending got cut. My fault for being busy and not checking my copy/pasting! The ending, just a few extra sentences, is properly there now.
> 
> A little something I whipped up for Oz Magi's 2020 Party in the Dress Factory. Inspired by [trillingstar](/users/trillingstar/)'s lovely prompt for oz_magi
> 
> Pairing/Character(s): Alvarez/Mukada  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: "What the hell are you doing here?"  
> Special Requests: Post-canon preferred. On Christmas Eve, Fr Mukada finds Alvarez on the steps of his new church. Not too angsty, please.
> 
> Sorry about the angst, and it being _around_ the holidays instead of on Christmas Eve. I just adore these two, but can never manage to come up with ideas for them. This prompt provided one wonderfully, thanks!

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

The rough voice startled him, out of the darkness just outside the side door to the church. The small human-sized door, not the large ornate wooden ones out front that beckoned God's creations into sanctuary. 

They vigilantly tried to keep the small bulb by the side door working, after too many harried clergy and church workers had dropped their keys in the snow. Into the weak glow cast by it stepped Father Mukada's past. 

Miguel Alvarez. 

Bundled up in an old worn leather coat, over a hoodie only half shrouding his face, hands tucked in pockets. Plain grey pants, the kind they wore behind the stone of Oz, Converse in the snow, his feet would get damp and cold like that. These were not clothes entirely of choice, but scrabbled together from what could be acquired. 

Father Mukada thought he couldn't startle anymore, all things considered, after long years sharing space with violence and desperation. 

"Miguel?" Ray was wrong about that, and it showed in his voice, as weak as the light. 

"Hey, Padre. Happy to see me?" The smallest tug at the corner of his lips, light reflecting in his shadowed eyes, the tease in his voice was an echo from years ago. He looked weary, the years hanging heavy on a face still handsome, but haunted. 

Ray steeled his spine. (And his heart -- the parts of it not for his flock, the also long lost parts for himself that he'd given up to take his vows.) He remembered how to do this, putting that steel in his voice. "What am I doing here? That should be my line--" 

At the familiar sight of Miguel's eyebrow raising in playful challenge, something ached inside of Ray. He was used to ignoring that too, though. Despite the five years that had passed, settling on strong shoulders and sharp shadowed features -- it was still Miguel Alvarez, the parts of himself not lost or forgotten. "Really? You fucking swear now? Invoke hell and shit? Man, I guess things _have_ changed." 

The more he spoke, teased, the brighter and more familiar he sounded. 

"No." Ray schooled his face into a disapproving frown, ignoring his shake. Was he in danger? From Alvarez? 

Part of him always said _yes_ \-- remembering even now being dragged away and beaten, tied up and bloodied, feral desperate weight crushing him into a solitary bed, the man in front of him so lost and scared it made him dangerous. (And the ache, the one Ray had given up listening to for a collar, but which returned, stepping out of the shadows like Alvarez now. That had always been dangerous, as well. More so, maybe.) 

But part of him, hopefully foolish and believing in goodness, the best parts of him -- always countered with _no_. Ray wasn't truly in danger, not like Alvarez always was. 

"Why are you here?" Ray's hard swallow braced him, his voice lowering to a private hiss despite no one being around in the hollow darkness and snow. "Did you escape again?" 

That laugh, all gravel, broke loose in a cut-off burst. 

"Why the fuck would I come here? You'd turn me in, maybe. Nah." The sight of Miguel's face was lost in the hoodie for a minute, downturned to watch the idle kick of his shoe. 

Ray outwardly softened, unable to keep his relief inside. The clothes weren't taken in a desperate escape. The coat was borrowed from family, or his old possessions maybe stored, or picked up from a thrift shop. They were the meager things to be cobbled together with what little money he would have been set free with in his pockets. 

Ray didn't know if he would've turned him in, had things been different, but he kept that to himself. Like so many things. 

"I'm happy to hear it." He didn't hide that, even as he tamped down on the swelling in his chest. Miguel had finally caught a break, maybe was finally on the path and hadn't been shoved off of it. The warmth filled him, and he paid attention to the parts of it he was allowed to feel. "Why are you here? How are you here?" No accusation, just soft curiosity, and the joy he couldn't contain. In the dim light, his smile was slightly larger than the small one playing on Miguel's lips. 

"He lost." 

"What?" 

"Parole asshole who made it his life's fucking mission to make me pay? Well, turns out he was full of bullshit. I mean, I knew that." Small shrug of his shoulders. "But he thought his dumb ass life was meant for better -- ran for some office or something. Political shit. Gave up his cushy job keeping poor motherfuckers locked up. And then _his ass lost_. Couldn't get his spot on the board back." The slicing grin wasn't as small as the shrug, and it caught the small light illuminating the area around the church door. Ray's eyes left the sharpness of it to watch the movement of Miguel's two fingers, miming a little walk away from himself. "So that motherfucker slunk his sore loser ass away somewhere. Ain't seen him since." 

The gleeful joy at another's misfortune was alive in his expression and gesture. It changed his whole demeanor, brought him right back to youth. Ray remembered this Miguel. The harshest, worst parts of him. Not the fear, or the hope, the desperation or despair -- the laughing mockery of another's pain. It was all Miguel Alvarez, though, even the parts Father Mukada hadn't tried to nurture. 

And he was here, on the steps of Ray's new church. Well, not the steps. Around the side, where the clergy, volunteers, and assistants tucked inside of it. 

All of Miguel Alvarez might still be there though, it appeared, as his grin fell away for a sigh that seemed to rattle up from deep within. "New board let me out." 

Miguel was standing in the snow, shoulders up and arms tight against his body, holding himself close. 

"Come in." There was no question, no thought needed to inviting him in out of the cold. And Miguel followed right behind, into the church, down the hall, closely enough for Ray to feel the presence he couldn't see. Gone were the days of sharing a rectory with his fellows. His new church placement had small living quarters for the priest in residence, alone. 

Miguel shed his coat, placing it over the back of the wobbling wooden chair at the small donated table. The old chair groaned with the shift of his settling weight, as Miguel left the hoodie on unzipped, hood down now to reveal his face. "Where the fuck were you anyway? My ass is freezing. Hot date?" 

It was the wink, maybe, or the better light in the small kitchen. The years carved into him by prison fell away to show his real age. Underneath the weariness there was clear joy from being out in the world again. His disgruntled mumble didn't sound truly annoyed, because the pure lightness was buried there too. 

"Yes." Ray gave him a steady look, not hiding his sarcasm here, with this piece of his past blowing on cold tattooed hands in his kitchen. "The widow Monroe and I have quite the torrid affair going when I bring her holiday meals." 

Miguel's laughter again, carrying on much longer but just as roughly, filled the room. 

Here, inside, he didn't look bad. He looked well, just tired and chilled. 

Ray didn't bother to ask before fetching the stale coffee being kept warm in case of a late night. He had one extra chipped mug, and that was it. He pushed it in front of Miguel. "I don't recall you making an appointment. You should've dressed more warmly." 

The grin was a bit bitter that time, as the slender and graceful hands Ray was surprised to remember wrapped around the mug. 

"Yeah, my wardrobe isn't up to your standards, huh?" Miguel's quirked eyebrow, the twitch of one finger that refused to leave the warmth of the mug, indicated the scarf Ray was finally unwrapping from his neck now that he'd seen to his guest. 

"Mrs. Monroe used to knit when her arthritis allowed." Ray explained as he too shed his much warmer coat. 

"Okay, so you weren't kidding. Got a widow in love with your ass." 

"She's eighty, Miguel." 

Miguel's chuckle was lost in his coffee that time, before he turned more serious. "Didn't have a choice. Warm as I got for now." 

"How long have you been out?" Ray settled into his chair across from him. Miguel had somehow known which one was Ray's and chosen the other, more beat up and rickety one, maybe. 

It seemed almost like he'd just stepped off the bus. He wouldn't have come here first, though. Unless... Ray's worries that he had no place to go were cut off. 

"Not long. Went straight to my Moms. Staying there until I get things sorted. Don't have any interviews or nothing for a week, though. Holidays and all." Miguel shrugged back into a familiar slouch in the chair. 

So different, so much the same. Foreign, here in the church's little behind the scenes living space, but fitting himself into the warmth somehow. 

Ray ignored the ache, and thought of his calling. To help. (To help this man, who he wanted to help with _all_ the parts of his heart.) 

"So you came here?" Ray prompted. 

"Got time. Figured I'd see where you'd run to." 

Ray reached out only halfway across the table, not close enough to grab a hand wrapped back around a mug. "You're always welcome here." 

Miguel snorted. "Well, yeah. God's house and all." 

"No -- well, yes. But I meant -- I'm glad to see you, Miguel. I'm very happy you're out." These were the words he could say, and he meant them down to his bones, through his soul. 

"Me too, of fucking course." His smile was blinding, stretching his old scar and lighting him brighter than the kitchen. "Didn't even mind waiting for your ass in the snow, really. Was fucking -- it was kind of nice, you know? I mean, cold as shit, but..." Miguel trailed off, but not unhappily. 

No, hadn't been out long at all. 

"There's a spare key behind that chipped brick above the door. Use it next time." Ray smiled wryly. "Unless you'd rather play in the snow." 

Next time. Like there'd be one. Ray's life was hope, though, wasn't it? (What was he hoping for this time?) 

"Why'd you run?" Miguel's dark gaze shifted to peer right into him, moving right past the invitation to pin him with the question. 

Ray pulled back his hand, and the soft smile that had found its way to his face with it. "I didn't run." 

"Why the hell are you here?" Joy drained away, for quiet darkness. Miguel's intensity was still alive and well, too. "You fucking left. I-- shit. Wouldn't be here without you. You-- you were needed fucking there, man." He finished his thoughts towards the mug turning in his hands. 

"I wasn't there for your release, Miguel. You did this, not me. You didn't need me." Ray pointed out, the fact settling within him. For all that he'd tried -- and failed -- Miguel had made it only after Ray had left Oz for a new quieter church. Without Ray, he'd done better. 

He'd never really helped had he? He'd kept pushing the man towards hope, towards seeking more from his life, only to watch all the violence and reality of Oz, of the world, crush him. Destroy him, and turn him back towards the darkness where he was more safe. 

"Bullshit." Miguel, expression adamant in what may have been simmering anger, did not seem to agree. “I wouldn't have made it-- wouldn't even have seen it being something I could fucking have -- if not for your annoying ass hounding me for years. Showing me-- shit -- nah, without you I wouldn't have even, like, tried for anything different, Padre. Wouldn't have known to." 

Maybe it wasn't anger, just passion. Conviction of the good kind, the kind with grace, rather than the damnation of a prison sentence. 

Ray remembered this -- Miguel chasing down thoughts, piecing them together with his fractured shifting words as he figured out what he wanted to say, what he felt. 

Ray missed it. Him. Leaving it behind hadn't really left anything, apparently. 

Ray did reach out this time, all the way. Startled again, maybe, when Miguel's hand left the heat of the mug to lay flat on the table, letting itself get caught palm down underneath Ray's. 

"You did it, though. You, not me. And I'm real glad, Miguel." 

It ached again, how much he meant that gratitude to see Miguel here, out. Meant it in ways he should and shouldn't. But it was all true, real down to his heart. 

The hand trapped lightly against the table under his turned, palm up, fingers warm now and curling around his. 

"Me too, fucking obviously." Miguel’s face cast down again with the repeated sentiment, into the coffee which was somehow less dark and warm than his eyes. “You should’ve stayed.” 

“I'm here now.” 

Ray couldn’t stop the squeeze of his hand, anymore than he could stop his gaze from fixing right on the man in front of him. The one not letting his hand go. 

Couldn’t stop the meaning quietly hidden in his flawed human heart. 

He didn’t know if he could keep that meaning hidden still. Here. In the place he’d run to. Now that Miguel was free. 

Free. Even with restrictions, that was beautiful. 

(He was beautiful.) 

Miguel didn’t let go of his hand, as the depth of his eyes in his unreadable face turned back up to Ray. 

This time, he was caught. 

(Again.)

It didn’t matter, he meant it with everything inside of him. Ray was here. For him.

In whatever way it ended up being.

***  
End


End file.
